I must have come to see you play about six times, now. The first time must have been at least ten years ago. And every time was different: different town, different venue, different show, different songs. Every time was different, too, because I was never the same and it was never the same time or the same world. Never the same pain or the same joy.
I have this memory of you talking to us, the first time I saw you, about how you loved to receive letters. Real letters, on paper. That you had a letterbox waiting outside your house and that you would love to hear from us. Was that you? I want it to be. It made me happy and it made me come back. Your hair was longer and curly, in that memory of you.
I like to draw birds. I think I know where heaven is, but it’s hard to explain. I have a two year old son now. He brings out the best in me. At times, I recognise him from before. He’s a very, very old friend of mine.
Josh, some things were the same every time, though. I love how your concerts touch our pain and soothe it with the music at the very same time. I love how good you are with language and how skillful you play and sing, with those colourful people at your side. I love how at every concert I cry a little and I laugh a little and I always feel uplifted at the end of it.
Dear Josh, I finally wrote you that letter, now.
Thank you for singing with a smile on your face.
****I didn’t take this photograph, and I don’t know who did. I don’t mean to violate any copyright. Is this photograph yours? Then please tell me if I should remove it or if I can leave it here and add your name. Thank you.****